


She

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Moriarty, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2411669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen Sebastian and Jade; the development of their relationship through a series of moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She

**Author's Note:**

> Things that are relevant but not explicitly mentioned:  
> Jade is sixteen. Sebastian is eighteen.  
> Sebastian studies and boards at Eton, but his parents live in London. Jade lives in London.
> 
> I just wanted to write something in this AU for myself, and then I ended up experimenting with second person, which I've only used once before, so don't read expecting brilliance.

She is in your bed.

You've never had a girl in your bed before. You fuck them in their own beds, or in those of strangers. Sometimes you don't have the luxury of a mattress; you have a couch, or a wall, or on more than one occasion, you make do with the floor. At least it spares the squeaking of bed springs.

But she is in your bed, looking so at home between the sheets, and you can't remember what your bed looked like before it had her in it.

“I'll share,” she says, as if it is her bed and this is a gesture of utmost kindness. “But stay on that side.”

She is in your bed, and you are sure you have no chance with her. And that's okay.

*

She is not the kind of girl you usually go after.

She is not a redhead, or even a blonde. Her hair is dark, and she keeps it short; chopped in messy, uneven lines with a pair of scissors. Her legs do not go on for days, and she does not have curves at all, never mind in the right places. She is small and bony; all sharp shoulders, elbows, knees. She is not a particularly pretty girl. She is too pale, too thin, but there is something nice about her face, and when you look in those eyes you want them to swallow you.

She is not the kind of girl you usually go after, and she is just a friend.

But sometimes when you look at her you can't help but wonder.

*

You think she is queer for a long time.

After all, why else would she not be attracted to you? Every other girl is.

You have been spoiled all your life, in one way or another. You have learned that when you want something, you get it. So it is strange for you, having to adapt to the knowledge that she is something you can not have.

You don't ever try to force her. You don't even suggest to her that there is anything more to your feelings.

You think she is queer, and you leave her be.

*

You get used to being tangled in her.

At the start she is wary and tense when you get too close. Those eyes go wide, like a startled deer. Except she is nothing so fragile. Delicate, yes, but not fragile. She is more like a cornered animal, poised and ready to flee or strike at a moments notice. She trusts no one, especially not you.

Things change gradually. It starts with light touches to your wrist, your shoulder, the inside of your elbow. One night she rests her head against you, and you lift your arm, allow her to settle by your side. It's not long before tenseness drains from her body when she sees you; you become her safe place without realising.

Now when she sleeps in your bed, she uses your chest as a pillow. She wears your shirts like nightgowns, and the smoothness of her legs get all mixed up with yours. You only have to turn your head to breathe her in, and she smells like your shampoo.

“What if I don't want to sleep on my back?”

You don't mean it. She knows you don't mean it. She has you completely wrapped around her finger and you are both aware of it.

“Pillows don't talk.”

The leg hooked around your thigh tightens, and she cuddles closer against you. Your heart stutters a beat, and you can't explain it. You don't do this. You do not cuddle girls. You do not let them wear your shirts, or use your shampoo, and you certainly do not care this much for anyone else's happiness.

You get used to being tangled in her, and when she sighs against your neck, you think you might even like it.

*

It takes you by surprise when you realise she is your best friend.

You're not entirely sure how she wriggles her way in to your life. All you know is that the stretch of time before you were aware of her existence barely seems real. You know it is there, that it exists, but when you move back through your memory her presence taints even the moments she is absent from.

It is months before it occurs to you that you willingly spend more time with her than anyone else. That your brush off the weekend invites for games of football in the park, or evenings in the pub, or even house parties. You stop making excuses not to come home from school at the holidays. You invent reasons to go home at the weekends.

You buy her a phone, and when you can't make it, you spend hours talking to her. On the nights her insomnia keeps her up, you don't sleep either. You think it's worth it, because you are the only one she trusts with her thoughts and ideas. You're also rather fond of her voice.

“Shouldn't you be out charming girls out of their knickers?”

“I'd rather be talking to you.”

The words are out before you can stop them, and it surprises you when you realise you mean them. When you realise she is your best friend.

*

The first time you kiss her, it is an accident.

You are curled up together in your bed. It is early on a Sunday morning, slow and lazy, nowhere to go. You are home for Easter. You and her both relish in the fact that you won't have to leave any time soon.

Her hand is on your chest while you talk. She alternates between playing with the hair there, and trailing her nails up and down over your skin. You are used to her touching your body like it is her property, so you don't react until her fingers slide lower, over your ribs and stomach. The light touches make you squirm, a little huff of laughter escaping you. She takes delight in this reaction, and the next thing you know, she is properly tickling you until you are breathless.

Finally, you manage to catch her wrists, halting her movements. You roll towards her, and there is still laughter falling from your lips when they press against hers. For a few glorious seconds, you forget she is not your girlfriend. Then she goes still beneath you.

Your retreat is hasty, and the silence following it stretches for longer than you can bear. You are just about to apologise when she screws up her nose.

“Ew.” She slaps your chest, but does not pull away. “Gross.”

You pretend you to laugh it off, pretend you are not dying to taste those lips again.

The first time you kiss her, it is an accident, but it stirs such a hunger in you.

*

The second time, she kisses you.

She doesn't like parties. You know this, but you want to catch up with some friends while you're home, and you don't want to sacrifice your time with her. It's a reluctant compromise, but in the end she comes along.

She stays by your side all night, and people assume she is your girlfriend. You can tell, even if they say nothing, because you always have at least a couple of girls approach you at these things. As if to prove your theory, once she slips off to the bathroom, a girl appears at your side. The girl is pretty in an obvious way, and you make polite small talk, return the flirting out of habit.

You don't see her when she comes back until she is pushing past the girl. Her arms go around your neck, and before you realise what is happening, she has pulled you down to her height, is kissing you hard.

“I thought I was gross.” You can feel her lips against yours when you speak.

“You are, but you're also mine.”

The second time, she kisses you, and it is fully intentional.


End file.
